


Son of a Mudblood

by arby



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Dreams and Nightmares, Dreamsharing, Hazing, Mind Games, Multi, Polyjuice Potion, Roleplay
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-04
Updated: 2017-09-03
Packaged: 2018-02-11 17:28:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2076738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arby/pseuds/arby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Severus knew what he was doing was wrong, but he thought he had himself under control - until Harry Potter came to Hogwarts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Severus Snape had seen Harry Potter before, as a small child, but the day he first saw the half-grown boy in the Great Hall at Hogwarts still resonated in his mind.  He recognized him instantly, and would have even if he'd never laid eyes on him before.  It was like a physical blow, like seeing James again after all those years, the resemblance was so horribly strong.  The hair standing up in untidy tufts, the round glasses ever so slightly askew, the scrawny, wiry frame - all were sickeningly familiar.

Quirrell was prattling away in his ear - or rather stammering – but Severus heard it as if from a great distance.  Blood roared in his ears and his sight, instead of growing dim as so often conveniently happened in books (Muggle romances and mysteries - not that Snape would know anything about those), actually sharpened instead to a crystalline clarity, focusing relentlessly like a telescope as Harry raised his gaze and met Snape's haughty stare with the half-guilty, half-defiant look of one who had been raised to regard his very existence as a crime, a look that echoed Snape's own miserable, unloved childhood back to him like a funhouse mirror – but the brilliant green eyes were Lily's, as exact a copy as the rest of the child's appearance was of James, and again he felt the impact as if he had been kicked in the stomach.

First Potions class, roll call, and Snape couldn't help himself, he drawled the dreaded name with a certain sneering condescension built up over the years in self-defense against the gibes of James and his hateful little crew: "Harry Potter."

The other children turned to look and the whispering that had been a low undercurrent since Harry first walked in swelled slightly to a low murmur. 

"It _is_ him!" They elbowed each other in disbelief.

It was unendurable, those eyes in that face, and when Potter said "Here," Snape felt queasy, but allowed no sign of his roiling emotions to show on his face as he gave a curt nod and lowered his eyes to tick off the name with furiously suppressed vehemence on his roster.

                        *                      *                      *                      *

The first year was tolerable, barely.  Snape was mostly annoyed by the boy's lax attitude towards his studies.  He was not without talent - expressed mostly in Charms and Defense Against the Dark Arts, as he didn't have the attention span or attention to detail for Potions - but he had no _drive_ , no burning need to learn, to force him to push his limits.  He had a tendency to fly by the seat of his pants in lieu of studying, just the way he did in Quidditch - as his father had done - and to get away with it due to a combination of luck and good instincts.  (Some subjects were more tolerant of that than others.)  He _was_ unusually lucky in general, and half the time that luck saved him when his lack of knowledge and experience should have led him to ruin.  This was both typical and typically unfair to those who had put in the effort - after all, hadn't he basically lucked into one of the greatest wizarding triumphs since Dumbledore beat Grindelwald?

Snape thought Potter had never done a hard day's work in his life, until one day he caught sight of his hands. They were not the hands of the idle – rich or otherwise – not that they were the hands of a common laborer, but he had known work.  They were a far cry from his father's hands. Snape shuddered internally and turned away. 

                        *                      *                      *                      *

The second year it got worse, mostly because of the dreams.  Severus became an insect Lily crushed under her heel, and as if from outside himself he saw her face as she scraped off his remains, sharp with disgust in a look he’d never wanted her to have to wear.  Lily running and laughing, with Potter and his gang, carefree in the sunlight, while Snape rotted in the shadows, and grew malignant like a fungus.  That horrible moment when he'd come around the bend at Hogsmeade and seen them embracing, James with his _hands_ on her, his _lips_ on hers, and Lily saw Severus and sprang away from James like a cat, blushing and nervously fussing with her hair, while James looked straight at Severus and smiled, cocky, and raised an eyebrow as if to say, _I win again_.

He dreamed these scenarios, real and imagined, for months on end. Only when the school year let out did the nightmares lessen, but the first night after he saw Harry in the fall they came back with a vengeance.  He'd had them intermittently his entire life, ever since he lost Lily, but it seemed being in proximity to Harry exacerbated them, for obvious reasons.  As the term went on, the dreams went to the place they very rarely went, because Severus would not let them.  Lily faded away and James came to the forefront - James in the locker room after Quidditch practice in 5th year, when Severus was the ball-boy and general slave-rat to the Slytherin team (in his own House, for Merlin's sake!). He was scurrying around picking up towels and used jockstraps. Gryffindor had just beaten Slytherin – James had captured the Snitch after some four hours of hectic play, and here he was, flushed with victory and belatedly Severus became aware that they were alone in the room. He saw James's eyes upon him triumphant and glittering, drunk with power yet strangely, horribly calculating. The periodic dripping of water from the showers behind them was the only sound, echoing off the tiled walls like some kind of ricocheting prank by the Weasley twins, if they had been born then. 

"Snivellus," James said, with a certain soft malice. The hated nickname seemed to rush around the room, gliding on its own sibilants as if it were Parseltongue.  Severus just looked at him warily and kept on picking up towels, careful not to turn his back to James.

James lounged against the lockers, wearing only a towel, and in the harsh light from the GymBeams, his bones stood out in stark relief, skinny hips and sharp clavicles pressing against the skin like an necromancer animagus transforming into a skeleton. He was stronger than he looked, though, as Severus knew from bitter experience.

Finally Severus grew tired of the oppressive silence and spoke. "What do you want?" 

He regretted the question as soon as it was out of his mouth - hadn't he learned by now the cardinal rule of bullies: keep out of their way and do not engage them?

"Me? From you? Why on earth would I want anything from _you_?" A world of casual cruelty in that smile.  "Hmmmm, let's see. You can pick up this towel, I guess."

He held out the second towel he'd had draped over his shoulder in a classic sports cliché, and let it fall to the floor exaggeratedly, like a fair lady at a joust dropping her handkerchief.

Severus frowned.  It was a trick, that much was obvious, but refusing to play into the game only made bullies madder, and then they did worse things when they finally caught up with you. He hesitated, then slowly moved towards James. He tried to keep as far away as possible as he reached out and as his hand neared the towel, James's naked foot came out and languidly moved it away, towards himself and under a bench where it was awkward to get to. 

"Oops." James's face was a study in disdain.

Severus hated himself for doing this at all – where did the rulebook say that he had to pick up the Gryffindors' towels? – but he knew the orders he was following weren't in any school regulations, which paradoxically meant he did have to obey them or there would be worse consequences.  He had long ago given up on the idea of getting any help from his teachers – Potter had a way of twisting everything around to make himself seem innocent, and no one ever believed Severus if there was any other possible explanation to be had. Or invented.

He bent over further... a little further... and then he awoke abruptly gasping and wet with sweat in the blessed darkness of his quarters. 

Severus stared into the darkness, remembering what happened next against his will – how he stood up and James started punching him, fast – eye, chin, groin – until Severus was reeling, dizzy – and then he gentled, stroked the tormented flesh and Snape trembled helplessly in the older boy's grasp, unable to pull away. James looked triumphant.

Severus had to take a sleeping draught before he could sleep dreamlessly that night, and more than a few thereafter.

* * * * * * * * *

Upstairs Harry sat up at the same time, crying out "No!"  He was sick inside at the alien memory of his father, sneering, taunting, so cold and cruel.  Almost reminded him of someone familiar.  He got a sensation of blondness. And the half-guilty, half-defiant, humiliated boy being abused was _Snape_. Harry had been in that position.

While he'd been walking down the Hall of Mysteries all winter, this was the first time he'd been witness to one of Snape's dreams. At least, that was what Harry assumed had happened.

Harry was afraid to fall asleep, not wanting to know the full horror. He tossed restlessly for over an hour before a shallow sleep claimed him, waking at dawn groggy but glad he did not remember his dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GymBeams = wizarding equivalent of fluorescent lights for locker rooms


	2. Chapter 2

Other people seemingly had the luxury of forgetting, or self-deceit, of closing their eyes or turning their heads from their own failings, but Severus did not condone that weakness.  He knew always and with pitiless clarity exactly what he was doing – no matter how horrible the deed, there was no turning away for him. He watched as Voldemort tortured people alive, sometimes innocents, Muggles, other times vile enemies who probably were getting off lightly – but still.  Snape knew himself as a coward and a misfit, a traitor – but to whom?  He was loyal to Dumbledore, and being a traitor to Voldemort would be praised by most of the wizarding community. And yet. That was not the one he cared about.  He'd betrayed _her_ , all those years ago, in his teenage pride and stupidity, and he'd pay that price until he died – maybe even after.

So even now, in the secret crevices of his shriveled heart, Severus Snape knew he was doing things that weren't right. As plain as the nose on his face – which was very plain, indeed – it was a cold-blooded crime he committed, on both Muggle and wizarding sides.  And yet. He could not seem to stop himself. 

* * * * * * * * * 

Snape swirled into the sitting room of his own chambers with his haughty batwing air and stopped abruptly, lip curling with instant suspicion.  Harry, who was hiding in a closet under the invisibility cloak, broke out in a cold sweat, but did not move a muscle.  Snape's eyes narrowed and swept the room like a searchlight for several minutes, while his body stayed fixed on the spot. Then he went to his cupboard and fetched a flask of muddy potion that Harry instantly recognized as Polyjuice, along with a hairbrush. He uncorked it and plucked a single strand from the brush - Harry was too far away to make out the color, but it was long - and dropped it into the flask. He swirled the potion for a few minutes until it turned emerald green.

Then he turned on his heel and went back to the door. Harry's hopes of escape were quickly dashed, however, when he returned momentarily with someone in tow.  It was a female who looked for a minute like Tonks - Harry caught his breath and then let it out when he saw it was a lavender-haired Muggle. Snape led her over to the desk and spoke quietly to her for a minute. He handed her an envelope bulging with Muggle money. Then he sailed out of the room like a pirate schooner.

Harry hesitated for only a second, then eased his way out of the closet.  He went over to the Muggle and let the cloak drop. She gasped at seeing him appear out of nowhere, and clutched a corner of the desk for support.

Harry said, "Listen to me. You have to get out of here, right now."

She stared at him wordlessly, frowning.  She did look a lot like Tonks but her face was harder and she was wearing garish makeup.

Harry grabbed her shoulders and shook her.

"We don't have much time."

"Why do you care?" said she, not quite gruffly.

"Because I can't let him do... whatever it is he's planning."

He opened a window and shoved her towards it. She looked at him again and opened her mouth to protest, but something about Harry's expression must have convinced her she'd be wasting her time, so she shut her mouth with a snap and climbed through the window.

Harry immediately picked up the Polyjuice and drained it.  It tasted like mint and summer grass.  After an interminable thirty seconds – which he spent staring nervously around, expecting Snape to come back at any minute – he felt it working. He shrank a little in height and his hair grew rapidly past his shoulders, not stopping until it was halfway down his back. Something about his body felt different, he couldn't tell what it was until he brushed his hands over his hips and realized they had swelled, along with his chest – he had been turned into a girl! But _which_ girl was really the key question here. He picked up a lock of his hair and saw it was a dark red. For a minute his sight blurred with horror.  _Not Ginny, please let it not be Ginny..._. He looked around frantically for a mirror but there were none to be seen.   _Gee, what a surprise_ , he thought sourly, _considering whose rooms these are_.

It was at that moment that Snape reentered the room. He was wearing tattered robes that were rather too small for him. They might have been an old Hogwarts uniform, in fact.

He looked at Harry and for a minute Harry didn't recognize his ugly old teacher - Snape's normally sneering face was itself illuminated from within, glowing palely with something almost like love as he stared at the transfigured Harry. It rendered him nearly beautiful.

In a moment he had drawn close, and reached out his hand as if to touch Harry's hair – and then he drew back abruptly, as if realizing his place.  Harry thought he would either die of disgust – or kill Snape – if the greasy git touched him. He did not know how he would bear whatever horrors undoubtedly lay in store for him.

"Amazing," Snape said softly, as if to himself. "This one is exceptionally alike. The eyes..." 

Then he seemed to remember what he was doing, handed Harry a bunch of typed Muggle pages and said in a businesslike fashion, "If you could just read from this, where it says LE. You will see my lines are labeled SS." His tone was noticeably less supercilious than usual, but whether it was because he was paying for this service or whether the fantasy was taking over, Harry could not tell.

Then the typescript on the papers swam before Harry's eyes for a minute, refusing to come into focus no matter how hard he stared.  Did those initials mean what he thought? Unfortunately he didn't have the luxury of watching and waiting to figure it out. His line came first in the script and Harry had to read it right now or Snape would get suspicious.

"Severus," he read aloud, his voice shaking with horror, "I've left him."

Snape either didn't notice his excessive emotion, or was too wrapped up in reenacting his little drama to care. Dimly Harry realized that Snape didn't have a script – he didn't need one.

"Lily," he crooned, in a seemingly loving yet somehow utterly subservient, almost _fawning_ tone that made Harry feel distinctly sick, "I knew you would see the light eventually. You're way too good for him – you always have been."

Harry was conscious of a ringing in his ears as reality sunk in, but somehow he managed to keep reading.

"This doesn't mean you're off the hook. How _could_ you?"

Snape knelt instantly, and put his hand by Harry's foot. Harry felt something different then, a tiny ember of satisfaction warming his heart as he watched his enemy submissive before him.

Obviously something was supposed to happen next... he looked at his stage directions. Then he couldn't keep himself from smiling. Snape kept his head bowed and didn't see. Harry raised his foot and brought it down heavily on Snape's hand. Snape didn't cry out, though it must have hurt. Almost fascinated despite himself, Harry turned back to his lines.

"Say you're sorry!  Say you don't deserve me either!"

Snape groaned spookily, like a dying man. The hairs on the back of Harry's neck stood up at the sound.

"I am," a gutteral voice emerged from the moan, "Oh, Merlin - I know I don't."

"You're a despicable worm," said Harry, who was starting to warm to his role.  He took care not to deviate from the script, though – he was supposed to be a random Muggle with no preconceived grudge against Snape.

"I know." Snape writhed beneath Harry's foot. "I'm so, so sorry I ever called you that word. You can't even begin to imagine the price I paid for it."

Harry wondered what that meant.  He wished he could do Legilimens to find out just what horrible memory Snape was trying to exorcise.

"Why?! Why did you do it?" He tried to channel some of Hermione's most righteous indignation in his line delivery.

"I was ashamed," Snape whispered pathetically. "I was humiliated by _him_ ," he spat the word venomously, "by all of _them_ , in front of you, and I couldn't bear it. I lashed out at the only person who ever stood up for me."

Finally he looked up from the floor. Harry was not surprised in the least to see that Snape's cheeks were wet with tears. 

"Could you ever find it in your heart to forgive me?"

Harry sat down on the edge of the bed, and drew Snape's head into his lap. Despite himself, Harry felt pity towards his erstwhile tormentor. The man lived in his own private hell, and all the play-acting in the world would not release him from his self-imposed torment. So it wasn't as hard as Harry would have thought, to follow the script in giving Snape the comfort he was asking for.

"Shhh," Harry said, stroking the lank hair gently. "I forgive you, Severus. It's all right now."

Snape wept, and clung to Harry like a child.


	3. Chapter 3

The next time the victim was a young male Muggle, who submissively bowed to Severus, and when Harry snuck out to save him said, "Are you sure you want to do this? He asks for me special sometimes, because I do things the others won't," and Harry shuddered at the thought, but there was no time to find out what those things might be.

This time the Polyjuice was golden, familiar-looking, and drinking it did nothing. Harry felt a bone-deep chill of fear when he realized what that meant that dwarfed his earlier apprehensions.  What in Merlin's name did Snape want to do to Harry?

At first it looked innocent enough - a school desk in the middle of the sitting room, but when Snape said gruffly, "Take off your shirt" and turned away as if in disgust, Harry knew this would be bad. He was given a quill, parchment and an ink-pot - which was ominously empty. Then there was a swishing noise behind him and the lash caught his shoulders with a sharp agony that stunned him into crying out.

"Yes," breathed Snape, as if to himself, for his own private enjoyment. "That's good."

Harry gritted his teeth and vowed to remain silent. After three strokes, the first blood was drawn, but instead of running down his back, the pot began to fill with dark red liquid.

"Now write your lines, Harry," said Snape, in a gloating voice that from anyone else would be a horrible mockery of a master's tone, but for him was perfectly, horribly normal, "Write 'I AM MY FATHER'S SON' until I tell you to stop."

Harry wrote his lines for hours, as the lash cracked to keep time, and was almost glad of the distraction from the recurrent dreams, in which sometimes he played the cringing, humiliated Snape, sometimes the arrogant golden boy James, and sometimes himself, stammering or silent, while Malfoy abused him. Sometimes the dreams went to places even worse than he'd thought possible.  After those when he woke in the dark, heart hammering in his chest loud enough to wake the gargoyles, something else made its presence felt, like a bar of iron in his pyjamas.  He despised himself for this. It was always after he was James, or himself, and he did not want to think about what that might mean. _I am my father's son_.

Once it was he who tortured Draco, and the sight of that slight, pale figure trembling before him undid Harry in ways he'd never imagined. By the time he realized he was awake, he was so close to the edge that the whisper-light touch of the sheet set him off, coming silently with almost painful force, picturing those ice-grey eyes. He could not look Malfoy in the eyes either after that.  Let alone Dobby.

                                    *          *         *         *         *

The third time was a Lily episode again, and this time they were both so exhausted that they fell asleep. Harry awoke with Snape's head in his lap, one hand on the greasy hair. He froze in horror.

At that moment Snape stirred, blinking, stupid with sleep.  He seemed to think this transformation was to be expected - perhaps even his own doing.

"Give her back! Bring her back, you stole her from me," he wept, staring into Harry's eyes, stroking his hair as if he could make it change back.

But then he faltered.

"Wait - I didn't give you _that_ one..." and _he_ froze – with rage.

Harry struggled to keep his own emotions off his face. This was a sick man whose terrible secret shame had been found out by one of his most hated students, with whom he felt a deeply twisted bond due to his relationships with the student's parents. A wrong move now could set Snape off, like a crazy Muggle with a loaded gun.

Snape rose from the floor with as much icy dignity as he could muster, given the circumstances.

" _Petrificus totalis_ ," he snapped angrily, and he then he waved his hand at the windows, locking them with an audible click, before exiting sharply stage left. His robes fluttered behind him like a small army of bats.

Harry tried to keep from falling over and drooling. He did not succeed.

                                    *          *         *         *         *

Harry found himself in the hallways of the Slytherin dungeons. He had no earthly idea what he was doing there.

He heard voices echoing towards him. He shrank back instinctively against the wall as if he was wearing the Invisibility Cloak as Pansy, Crabbe, Goyle and some girl whose name he didn't know came round the bend. Their chatter stopped abruptly upon seeing him.

"What are _you_ doing here, _Potter_?" Pansy sneered, in a creditable imitation of Malfoy - who was, Harry was relieved to see, nowhere to be seen.

"What's it to you, _Pansy_?" he sneered back. "I was just leaving anyway. Don't want to be down in this smelly old dungeon any longer than I have to."

"Yeah, well - good riddance to bad rubbish!" she shouted down the hall after him.

Harry went to the Great Hall, not sure what time it was but hoping it was a time at which eating was allowed, as he was quite hungry. He found Ron and Hermione there, eating lunch. They fell on him at once, asking where he had been – he didn't know – and what was going on. 

He was racking his brain for some kind of answer when Hermione asked him, "Harry? Where'd you get that ring?" She sounded uncharacteristically hesitant for Hermione.

Harry looked at his hands. He saw nothing unusual. His vision blurred and doubled for a second and he thought he saw something on his right hand, but then his scar panged and he clutched his head with both hands instead, forgetting about it in his agony.  Hermione was distracted too, solicitously offering him water. Looking up through eyes squinted half-shut with pain, he glimpsed a dark figure across the Hall, a hook-nosed profile. He felt sick as his scar twanged harder. Snape was not glaring evilly at him for once. He didn't know if that made him feel better or worse.

Harry managed to shake off Hermione and Ron, and went back to the dormitory to lie down.  He told himself it would just be for a minute, then he could go to class... He couldn't admit to himself that he didn't even know when the last class he'd attended was, let alone what class he had next.

 _This is nothing to be alarmed about_ , he told himself sternly. _So Voldemort's up to something, what else is new. Stop lollygagging around and snap out of it._

He fell on his bed and closed his eyes. Waves of pain were coming from his scar. He tried to relax. He was still trying when he fell asleep.

His dreams were dark, clouded. He couldn't move a muscle. He dimly heard Snape's voice, muffled as if from another room, but he couldn't make out what it was saying. Whatever it was - a spell or an epithet - it was two words.

Then he had a sudden clear image of Malfoy, on the lawn by the lake, his bright hair a lick of white fire in the sunlight, sharply contrasted with the emerald green grass and black water. Malfoy appeared to be laughing, not the mean hateful laugh he often affected but generously, openly amused, almost friendly-seeming.  There was no sound in this portion of the dream, it was as if someone had turned off the soundtrack to the movie. Harry surprised himself by wanting to smile back, but found himself staring at the lake instead. How dark and deep it looked, how unutterably cold it was... Malfoy's image flickered like a pale candle-flame beside it - fading, dying, swallowed by the swelling darkness.

He woke shivering, drenched in sweat and even more disoriented than before he fell asleep. The instant he opened his eyes his scar tolled again, a silent bell ringing his death. He raised his head to check the time and the motion shot a bolt of such agony through him that he was sick all over the bedspread. He didn't know who to call. Then one name occurred to him, someone who would come, who wouldn't make him feel too ashamed.

"Dobby", he whispered weakly. _Please. Help me Dobby._


	4. Chapter 4

The next time Harry opened his eyes, it was to see  the infirmary. Someone was holding each of his hands. He turned his head very gingerly and saw it was Hermione and Ron, one on either side. Their heads rested on the bed and they were fast asleep. Ron was even drooling a little; there was a small wet spot beneath his open mouth.

Harry smiled. He was happy to notice that there was no pain. Madame Pomfrey saw Harry was awake and bustled over. She tried to act efficient and clinical but Harry could see the relief in her eyes. _It must have been pretty bad_ , he thought.

"Wake up children! Granger! Weasley! He's awake!" she clapped her hands sharply.

Ron started up in a flurry, hair tousled, and said, “Whazzat.. Hmaf.. Oh!”

Hermione blinked awake instantly and said, “Oh! Harry! Are you all right? How is your scar?”

Harry looked at them both with love and said, “It’s better now. How long have I been out?”

“A few hours,” said Madame Pomfrey brusquely. “I think you’d best stay here overnight for observation. Come, children, visiting hours are over!” She shooed Ron and Hermione out like a farmwife herding ducklings.  Then she came back in.

“Harry? You have one more person who would like to see you. It’s late, so if you want me to just send him away, I can.”

Harry frowned. “Who is it?”

Madame Pomfrey hesitated, seeming uncharacteristically unsure of herself. “It’s Draco Malfoy. I wouldn’t let him in, but… He’s the one that found you ill and brought you to the infirmary.”

Harry felt a low note of fear run through his spine, but somehow he didn’t want to send him away.

“It’s all right, you can send him in.”

She gave him a penetrating look, but merely nodded and swept from the room. A moment later a blond head peeked around the corner.

“Can I come in?” Malfoy’s voice was also strangely hesitant.

Harry rolled his eyes. “Yeah.”

Malfoy came in and sat gingerly by the bed.  He looked tired, his pale face drawn. He wouldn’t meet Harry’s eyes.  He played with the edge of the coverlet for a long minute. Harry refused to give him the satisfaction of asking what he wanted, nor of asking how he found Harry. The last thing he remembered was trying to call Dobby. He had passed out from the pain before anyone arrived.

“I just wanted to know if you had been having any… weird dreams lately,” Malfoy said, so quietly Harry could barely hear him. The last few words came out in a rush, mingling so that if Harry hadn’t known what they were, he wouldn’t have been able to understand.

Strangely, Harry felt like laughing aloud. He wasn’t sure why. He flashed back involuntarily to the dream of Malfoy sitting by the lake, the blond hair so bright that it was a tongue of flame, a sword thrust through his heart. Why the hell he should care so much, he had no idea. The image seemed freighted with more meaning than his consciousness was able to explain.

“Yeah,” Harry said softly, unable to tell whether he was just exhausted, or if there was a feeling there. “I have.”

Malfoy looked at him then, grey eyes wide, colored with a mix of emotions Harry couldn’t read.

“Me too. You’re in them sometimes.”

He flushed bright red and muttered something under his breath, before sucking in a deep breath and continuing warily, “Something weird is going on. I think someone is manipulating our dreams.”

Harry frowned, and a warning tingle shot through his scar.

“Don’t tell Snape!” he blurted, not even sure where it was coming from, just knowing on some bone-deep level that this had to be kept away from his enemy.

Draco frowned himself, but nodded.

“All right,” he said slowly. “I haven’t told anyone… except you.”

Harry closed his eyes, feeling his bones aching with weariness.

“Later,” he said. “When I get out of here, we’ll talk about it.”

“Okay,” said Malfoy quietly. His voice was uncharacteristically subdued. “Meet me out behind the Whomping Willow, at half past twelve.”

Harry nodded as Madame Pomfrey swept in, clucking and chiding under her breath, and hustled Draco out. Darkness swirled him down into oblivion as she gently shut the door behind them.

*  *  *  *  *

They met the next day, furtive, crouching in the shade of the bushes, the willow quiescent for once. Draco looked as if he hadn’t slept at all. Harry felt much the same, though he had slept all night and most of the morning, he had been heavily dosed and any dreams that he had had were gone by the time he awoke.

“Harry,” said Draco nervously. “Can I ask you something strange?” 

Without waiting for an answer, he went on, “Do you see something on my left hand?”

Harry looked. He saw a blur as if something were in motion, like a hummingbird, hovering above the hand.

“Sort of, I mean, it’s blurry,” said Harry. “What is it?”

Draco looked unsurprised. He nodded his head wearily.

“I think it’s an enchanted ring. I can’t really tell, because I can’t see it myself. Other people who are not affected by the spell tell me it looks like a big gold ring." 

Harry frowned, remembering Hermione’s question in the dining hall.

“That happened to me yesterday – Herm-someone asked me where I got that ring. I don’t remember having a ring.”

He held out his own hand. A similar blurriness affected it, but stronger, making him feel dizzy to look at it. He held it out towards Draco warily.

“I can’t see anything but that blurry spot. Can you see it?”

Draco glanced at his hand, then looked away quickly, as if the sight had hurt him somehow.

“No. It’s like mine. We need to figure out who did this, and what the hell the spell is even trying to do.”

Something occurred to Harry.

“I was just in the infirmary, and Madame Pomfrey didn’t notice this.”

“Maybe it has some kind of all-purpose “Hide Me” charm on it to anyone who might remove it.”

“And maybe it’s what made me so sick yesterday – it’s hurting me right now to think about it.”

Harry’s scar _had_ begun to twinge, pulsing gradually stronger every time he looked at the blurry spot where a ring might be.

Suddenly Draco seized his hand and wrenched at his finger. The blurriness _twisted_ in a horrible way that made a mockery of reality, but a large and rather gaudy gold ring fell on the ground at his feet. Harry felt faint, but he refused to pass out in front of Draco. He barely had the strength to stand upright, but he grabbed Draco’s hand and returned the favor.  Another ring, twin to the one that had been on Harry’s hand, released its grip on Draco and tumbled to the forest floor.  Draco and Harry sat down abruptly, inadvertantly clutching each other for support.

“I… _remember_ ,” panted Draco, white face blazing with intensity. Some detached part of Harry noted in passing how the long beams of sunlight falling through the treetops sparked off his pale hair.  Then Draco said one word that jolted through Harry like an electric shock, and consumed his attention utterly.

“ _Snape_.”


	5. Chapter 5

“How much do you remember?” Harry’s head felt like the showers after the entire Gryffindor dorm had used them, an echo chamber of vapor; steamy, clinging. That simile frightened him; he didn’t want to think about the showers for some reason. His own face, through a funhouse mirror. He shook his head sharply and immediately regretted it as pain shot through his scar like bright lightning through dark storm clouds. He wasn’t at all sure what, if anything, he actually remembered. 

Draco looked slightly less confused than Harry felt. He frowned slightly, his white-blond brows quirking at humorously slanted angles, like French diacriticals. 

“Sort of. For a second I had it, but I'm fading. What I _know_ is that Snape did this to us.”

“Did _what_ , though?”

Draco’s mouth worked as if he was about to speak, but no words came out. Finally he said, “There has to be _some_ way to find out.” 

Harry had to agree, even as he had a sneaking suspicion that he would regret finding it out. He looked at the ground, where the two tacky golden rings still lay. 

“What about these?” he nudged one with his foot squeamishly. “Doesn’t Madame Trelawney have some way of sensing the history of any magical object?” 

“Yeah…” said Draco hesitantly. “Plus, she is someone that we can trust.”

“Because no one would listen to her or believe her anyway.” Harry finished his thought. 

Draco actually smiled. It was a wan, slightly sad smile, but seeing it on his face cheered Harry ever-so-slightly  _At least I’m not in this alone._

“Tomorrow, then.” He took his jumper off and used it to wrap up the rings, making sure not to touch them with his bare skin. Then he offered Draco his own version of that ambivalent, bittersweet half-smile. “Let’s hope we’re at least we’re done with the dreaming.”

Draco’s grey eyes went haunted around the edges, an expression Harry was sure his own had worn often in the past several weeks. “Yeah. After class though, I’m not skipping lunch again.”

*  *  *  *  *

That night, Harry did not dream. He _traveled_.

It felt like the second his eyes finally he closed, he opened them to the bright greensward of the lakeside. _This scene again_.

But Draco wasn’t there. Harry felt a strange ache that he couldn’t quite define. Surely he didn’t _miss_  his enemy?

(And surely Draco was still his enemy? After Voldemort, and Snape, came Draco. Right?) 

He looked at the deep crystalline blue of the lake. A green face swam below the surface towards him. He felt a moment’s sick fear before he saw it was just a mermaid. She breached the surface lightly, delicately. Silver drops ran down her cheeks like tears.  Her eyes were limpid and depthless. 

“He doesn’t remember yet,” said she not quite sadly, in her strange creaky voice, like a door hinge come to life. “But he will.” 

Harry nodded as if he had the faintest clue what she was talking about. He saw a glint out of the corner of his eye and turning his head saw Draco, lounging casually as if he had been there all along. 

“It’s about your parents,” he said dreamily. _Ironic, that, since we're in a dream_ , thought Harry.  “They started it all.” 

Harry got a flash of near-memory. James’s mouth, twisted into a cruel smile, the sound of water dripping, the stark white of a damp towel against bare skin… He shook his head, dispelling the not-quite-memory. It was freighted with such sadness and anger and shame. He didn’t want to know what lay behind that door. Better it stay closed. 

He sighed. “I know.”

They sat in silence for a time. The lake rippled with the tiniest of breezes. The mermaid had slipped beneath the surface as easily as she had come. As Harry watched, all the leaves of the poplar trees turned over at once, like a painter washing over a watercolor, going from pale green to an even paler silver. The wind flowing through them made a sound like rushing water. Harry wondered if the bottom of the lake was as still, and pictured the kelp fronds swaying, silvered with air bubbles. Green mouths opened and closed soundlessly. Sharp teeth glittered like stars in the darkness. 

_Full fathom five my love lies._  
_These are pearls that were his eyes._

He swam towards the surface sensing the dead eyes opening, the green mouth full of sharp teeth, and as the silver plane approached he felt his chest tightening with lack of oxygen until suddenly he awoke with a start, gasping and wringing wet. 


	6. Chapter 6

In the grey and dismal morning, Harry wondered distantly why he didn’t just go straight to Dumbledore, tell him… what, exactly? That something very strange was happening to him? That it had something to do with Malfoy, and something to do with Snape? He shook his head in disgust. There wasn’t enough to go on. He would make a fool out of himself in front of the person he admired most. 

He went to breakfast, and classes, and everything felt very far away, as if he were the one who was five feet under. Almost everywhere he went he saw that pale head shining like a beacon, that sharp face white as a ghost that wouldn’t stop haunting him, and turned away, wordless. He realized he’d always known where Draco was, even when - maybe especially when - he hated him with the burning passion of a thousand fiery suns. He’d always been able to count on Malfoy to be hateful, to be a rock of awfulness that Harry could sharpen his anger against, a whetstone for his rage. He didn’t like this new, uncertain alliance. It felt like the ground was quicksand under his feet. 

The day dragged on. Harry made so many mistakes in Arithmancy that Vector took pity on him and stopped calling on him altogether. Hermione looked sad and let him copy from her.  After the last class of the day Harry had a feeling he was meant to go have a private lesson, but it couldn’t possibly be with Snape? That wasn’t right. Surely Dumbledore wouldn’t torture Harry so. He shook off the lingering feeling, like a spider crawling on the back of his neck, and went to the Willow instead.

Malfoy was there, looking sulky, his narrow face pinched and unhappy. 

“I don’t like this,” he ground out, refusing to even glance at Harry, “not one bit.”

“Me neither,” said Harry wearily. “Let’s get it over with.”

They sought out Trelawny in her tower. She took one look at them and shooed out a few lingering fourth-form girls. Her gaze behind the giant glasses was unexpectedly sharp. 

“What brings you here, you ill-fated boys?” 

Harry tried not to roll his eyes. He brought out his jumper cautiously, as if it held a live snake, and unwrapped it. The two rings were rapidly tarnishing. If they had waited a day or two longer, they might have been completely eaten away by rust. Clearly the perpetrator had been thorough in his self-destruct spell, if not quite quick enough. 

“We need to know the spell that was cast on these,” he said flatly. It was not a request. 

She frowned at them and sat down abruptly, picking up her big mug of tea, from which the faint odor of cooking sherry wafted. “What ugly, ugly things. Who would put such dark magic on these hideous relics? They are as blackened inside as they are outside.”

“That’s what we want to know. Who did it, and what exactly did he—they— do?”

“It’s fading fast. Let me just…” she picked up her wand and muttered a spell Harry had never heard before in the general direction of the rings. They abruptly fragmented into two piles of rusted tin. 

“Great,” snarled Draco. “Our only evidence just got blown away. Well?”

“It’s a twice-twisted thing, make no mistake about it. You boys didn’t do this. It was done to you. I see a tall, dark, crooked shape. I see a black past coming round to haunt you…”

“Confound it, woman! This is no time for your blithering nonsense!” Harry was all but shouting. “Tell us plainly, what the hell was it?!?” 

“ _Language_ , Potter. Don’t you dare speak to me that way,” Trelawny’s eyes were crossing, but she sounded more like Professor Minerva than her usual vague self as she snapped at them. 

“Looks like there were several spells on those foul things. The big one is like a karma transference spell. It inflicts upon you what was once inflicted on someone else, but with a twist. Then there’s the spell that binds the two of you together - a variation of Aparecium, looks like - clever, that - precisely because you can’t stand each other - or couldn’t, before this. And there’s a heavy dose of Obliviate all over them, and you. The person who did this doesn’t want you to remember something, or a few things.” 

Harry caught Draco’s eye with a familiar creeping horror. The other boy looked as sick as he felt. He wanted to ask her about the dreams but she was continuing, oblivious:

“Here is the worst part: removing - nay, even destroying - the rings didn’t entirely break the spells. They’ve transferred to you now. I will have to cast—”

Trelawny was interrupted by a sudden shadow looming in the doorway. The timing was so clichéd as to be almost hilarious, given her penchant for the overly dramatic. Snape oiled into the room as if his shoes were greased, his dirty robes slapping like well-worn leather, like a vulture’s wings. He didn’t spare so much as a glance for his least-favorite student, Harry - or his once-favorite student, Draco. 

" _Sybill_ ,” he hissed, and her name might as well have been Parseltongue in his mouth. “Might I have a word…in private?” 

She swept the remains of the rings up in Harry’s jumper so smoothly, Snape might not have seen them. But Harry saw his eyes dart down and knew he had. He didn’t have a moment to fear the consequences before Professor Trelawny put her back to Snape, shoved the bundled jumper into Harry’s hands, and jerked her head at the door urgently. She didn’t say a word but her eyes were dark with concern, before she turned to Snape and he could _see_ how swiftly she went misty again. He suddenly wondered how much of her vagueness was an act. Clearly far more than he had ever suspected. The capacity of adults to dissimulate never ceased to amaze him. 

He didn’t stop to ponder it, though, but ran for it. He heard Malfoy’s rapid footsteps behind him. They ran down all the flights of stairs without stopping, until they were at the main floor, where Draco glanced around uneasily. “Not here,” he panted, and Harry had to silently agree. They couldn’t be seen consorting in public like this; it was bad for both of their reputations. He swallowed a desire to ask Draco back to his room right then and there. Draco frowned at him as if he could read his mind. _But I’m the one studying Legilimens_ , Harry thought suddenly, though he couldn’t say where that had come from. An image of a scrawny boy that looked like a baby version of Snape hanging upside down in thin air - his pathetic, threadbare and stained knickers ballooning, while several other boys laughed and pointed - made him feel like laughing and crying at the same time. He shook it off as if the vision were one of Luna’s nargles. 

“Fine,” Harry grated through gritted teeth, feeling distinctly persecuted. “Midnight. The Willow.”

Malfoy turned away without bothering to reply, his shoulders hunched as if he, too, felt the weight of a dark thing riding them. 

*  *  *  *  *

Harry didn’t mean to fall asleep. After dinner, he retired to the dorm to attempt to study - as if he could focus on thrice-bedamned Potions with this hanging over him - and the words blurred on the page, over and over, until he just closed his eyes for a minute to rest and then…

He was in the forest, running, running, and a fleet, illuminated shadow flickered before him like a moth, like a dryad, whispering in the woods, beckoning him ever onward as he leapt over fallen logs like a stag and raced, bounding, onward, chasing a ghost of a hart like his mother’s Patronus, except the soft white hair that glowed with its own internal light was nearly his own height, white teeth flickering in the sharp pale face like a fairy, that face was someone's he knew better than he knew himself, and yet he didn’t want to know who it was. He wanted to catch this creature and bruise that narrow mouth into submission, he wanted to make it bleed until it loved him back, but he ran all night, and couldn’t catch it.


End file.
